


waiting for you here

by superbest (thoughtwewerefriends)



Series: jacked up [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up (sort of), Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Moving, Pining, Slurs, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtwewerefriends/pseuds/superbest
Summary: get back, back, back to where we lasted,just like i imagined.





	waiting for you here

_A long time coming._

It’s the phrase thrown around most often, when describing the falling-out between them, and yet, Kyle can’t say that it’s a sentiment that he shares. It hadn’t been a long time coming. It hadn’t been something either of them expected, and it certainly hadn’t been something that they’d wanted. (Kyle hadn’t wanted it, wants desperately to believe that Stan didn’t either, finds it harder every day to convince himself that that’s the truth.)

The news comes.

He doesn’t tell Stan.

He doesn’t tell anyone that Stan doesn’t know.

It’s the final act, the denouement, the part of the story where they grow the fuck apart and move on with their lives.

(He never finds out who leaked his secret.)

The party, if one could call it that, is small. He would call it intimate, if he would really call it anything at all. Kenny, Butters, and Craig _fucking_ Tucker, of all people, sitting in a circle around his living room, wishing him well, telling him that he’s going to flourish, out west. (He feels like a prospector on his great journey for gold, but he won’t say that, because he’s sure that it’ll hurt someone’s feelings, or make Craig _roll his eyes_ , and, god, wouldn’t it be awful to have to go to _prison_ for a crime of passion?)

Kenny is working on his third epic rehashing of childhood memories when there’s a knock at the door. Kyle stares at him. Stares at him hard, gives him the look that he’d inherited from his mother, the one that makes grown men quake in their goddamn boots. Kenny’s mouth opens, shuts, opens, shuts, a spectacular impression of a goldfish, and Kyle’s eyes turn instead to Craig.

“What.”

Great. Fantastic. Ever the open book, Craig Tucker.

The knocking turns into pounding, bleeds into what sounds like kicking. Kyle is prepared to ignore it, hunker down inside this house until the moving van comes to swallow up all traces of the Broflovski family, never to be heard from again.

(It’s the _yelling_ that gets him, eventually, and only because it doesn’t sound angry so much as it sounds _confused_.)

The door swings open.

Blue eyes stare up at him from the other side. (Kyle can smell _whiskey_ on his breath, and maybe he feels guilty for it.)

“What the fuck, Kyle.” Not a question. A statement, an accusation, pointing fingers at Kyle in the form of a sentence, heavy with implications too intense for those four words. He does his best not to be affected by it. Squares his shoulders, smooths his face. Impassive. (Take a page out of Craig fucking Tucker’s book, Broflovski.)

“What the fuck _what_ , Stan.” Two can play, two can play, two can play. They haven’t had a real conversation since freshman year.

“Don’t give me that shit.” Pause. _Hic._ Huff. “Don’t give me that _shit_ , Kyle! You know what! You know, you know what the fuck. You know it, you know. I, I’m. You know.”

“Yeah, you really got ‘im there, Marsh. Amazing.”

Stan jumps at the sound of that voice, and Kyle winces. Stupid, _stupid_ Craig Tucker. Maybe, possibly, if he goes to jail tonight, his mom would forgive him. Stan leans, leanlean _leans_ , trying to see past Kyle into the living room.

“What? Who’s. Kyle, who’s in there? Who else is in there, Kyle?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What? No! No, I am worried about it! I’m worried about it, Kyle, who’s in the house?”

“It’s my house, Stan.” Kyle’s shoulder meets the doorway in an attempt to keep prying eyes out of his living room. (Really, Stan has spent the last two years not caring even the smallest bit about what Kyle does or says, who he hangs out with, and he’s frankly insulted by the petty jealousy now.)

“Kyle, tell me that’s not Craig.” Those blue eyes turn up towards him again, and Kyle’s heart hardens. Steely and cold in his chest. (This is what Stan deserves, he reminds himself. This is what Stan has _earned_ from him.) “Tell me that isn’t Craig.”

“That isn’t Craig.”

“You’re _lying_ to me now? You’re lying to me, and, and, an’ you’re keeping secrets? I thought, you know, I really thought, I thought we were best friends! I thought we were best friends, Kyle!”

That’s it. That’s the phrase that grabs him, the phrase that flings him head-first into the fiery sort of rage that he saves for social injustices and the state of his brother’s bedroom. His grip on the door handle tightens, his lips flatten, his brows draw together, and he’s boiling, boiling, boiling. “Best friends, Stan? Best friends? That’s weird. That’s really weird, because you haven’t said more than three words to me since your birthday.” Scoff, head shake, eye roll. The deadly trifecta. “One would think that best friends would be a bit more communicative.”

“Yeah, well, one would think that the other one wouldn’t be such a goddamn, fuckin’, bitch all the time, too, huh? _Huh_ , Kyle? Huh?”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“You don’t get to talk to _me_ like that!”

“Oh, my god.” Kyle’s hands lift, to cover his face, rub his temples, drag down his cheeks. His the textbook definition of frustrated. He’s never been so angry, felt so betrayed in his whole life. (He has, he has, he can trace this frustration the whole way back to being fourteen and _so damn sure_. A story for another time, a thought for another place.) “Do you realize how childish you sound? Do you see how big of an ass you’re making yourself out to be here, Stanley?”

“Don’t, don’t pull that, that condescending bullshit, Kyle. You’re not better than me, just because you’re, just because you’re.”

“Because I’m what?”

“When were you going to tell me?”

The world goes silent, save for the pounding of his heart, and he can’t breathe. He’s fourteen again, having this conversation with Stan, watching his best friend’s back as it climbs into a U-Haul. (It isn’t fair to compare this to that, though, is it, because that had been before, and this was after, and his life has been separated into this hideous dichotomy without his express permission, and it hurts, hurts, _hurts_.)

“I wasn’t.”

Stan’s eyes widen, dark brows snap inward, and his lower lip wobbles. “What?” he whispers, brokenly, hoarsely, strained, but Kyle’s heart has been dipped in steel and plated with armor, and he isn’t falling for this this time, isn’t going to dance this dance again. He refuses to play the part of Icarus this time, refuses to let himself stray too close to Stan’s warmth, refuses to don the wax wings expected of him. He will not be the walking tragedy.

“I said, I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to tell you, Stan, because I didn’t want you to _know_. Because we _aren’t_ friends. We haven’t _been_ friends in a long time, and I don’t feel _obligated_ to keep you updated on my day-to-day. I don’t know why I feel like I have to justify my choices to you. I shouldn’t have to. You don’t deserve it.”

The tears are here in full force now, rolling down Stan’s cheeks, dripping off of his jaw, soaking into his lapels. Kyle has to tell himself they’re crocodile tears. A stab at pulling pity. He’s on a little bit of a roll here.

“San Francisco’s gonna eat you alive,” Stan says, and his hands are shaking. “You’re tearing down all these bridges, and there’s not gonna be anyone here for you when you need them.”

“I didn’t burn this fucking bridge, Stan!” He shoves without thinking, palm flat against Stan’s chest, watching with a heaping dose of satisfaction as Stan stumbles back, slips off the stoop, lands on his ass in the snow. (It hurts him, that it has to end like this, but he knows that this is right. He knows that going out with a _bang_ is the right thing to do.

Stan’s face is read, his pupils blurry and unfocused. He doesn’t get up, just balls his fists up, kicks up snow in a futile attempt to hit Kyle’s bare feet. “Fuck you, Kyle! You’re, you’re a piece of shit! You’re a fucking piece of shit, Kyle, you miserable fucking fa--”

The door slams shut, and Kyle leans against it, taking deep breaths, reigning his mind in. No, he can’t hit Stan. No, he doesn’t want to. Yes, Stan had given him a good reason to, flinging _that word_ around with full intent to harm. He’s sick, suddenly. Ill. Feels as if he might actually pass out, right here on his mother’s favorite welcome mat.

His party disbands, and he goes to bed without dinner.

Morning comes, and they load their lives into a U-Haul.

The clouds are grey above them as they drive, and Kyle’s chest feels hollow and cold.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> this work involved a Lot of typing and deleting and typing and deleting, and i'm still not completely happy with it, but there's so much more i want to do with this series, so i figured that if this piece is a little bit clunky, i can maybe, hopefully, possibly make it up with the other pieces i have in the works for y'all!
> 
> until next time (which may be sooner than you think!)


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